something stupid
by Clorinda
Summary: Blair loses something in the back of a limo, and Chuck isn't willing to give it back. Missing moment.


**author's note**: _Victor/Victrola_ between Blair going up on that stage to her kissing Chuck in the limo. Small liberties taken. Title is a reference to Blair's "crime of passion" speech in _School _Lies. Written as proof that I will sell even my soul for good chocolate fudge.

**something stupid**

**By **Clorinda

Blair loses something in the back of a limo, and Chuck isn't willing to give it back. Missing moment.

After being broken up with my boyfriend for exactly twenty minutes, I succumbed to inebriation, performed at a speak-easy, and surrendered my virtue to a self-absorbed ass. The only good news is that he's a total pig who'll act like it never happened, thank God.

~ **Blair Waldorf**, confessional

The pumping music thundered in Blair's ears, the feel of the stole sliding down her shoulders. Expensive filmy material branded with Waldorf Designs meant nothing as she flung it into the audience, laughing as she saw Chuck catch it mid-air. He lifted the stole to his face, miming inhaling her scent. His smirk was like a beacon in the drunkenness of the club, a silent challenge.

"You want more?" she sneered, wondering herself how far she might end up going. She was already up on the stage of Victrola, surrounded by Chuck's burlesque harem. So much nice, little, demure little Blair, though at this point, she wasn't sure if anyone still bought any of her illusions. And if Chuck really thought she was a ball of wool he could play with, well, he was going to get more wool than what he ever bargained for. "You. Really. Want. _More_?

"How could I say no?" he called back, languishing on the couch, the flute of champagne abandoned for a Russian bottle. In reply, she grabbed it out of his grip, teetering dangerously on the stage in her stilettos. She had never been more beautiful to him, the one fruit on the tree that he couldn't touch. The temptation to violate that perfection was a challenge to his blood.

"And they said I was _stiff_," snorted Blair, tipping the bottle upwards as she balanced on the edge of the stage. The front of her dress was drenched, he realised, and her feet in those shoes moved with a purpose. How much had the Charlie Champers dimmed his brain cells? Blair Waldorf drunk? Pure delusion.

Which begged the question as to _what_ was she doing in Victrola, then, pretending to be smashed out of her mind?

"Do _you_ think I'm stiff?" she demanded, pointing a shaky finger at him. "Look at me! I'm _never_ stiff. I can _dance_." She was imitating the girls on stage, following the lines of their curvaceous bodies to the music. His languorous eyes followed every languorous movement of hers, enraptured by how the light struck her through the filmy wrap of her dress, revealing the curve of her waist. He was certain his hands would fit perfectly.

"You're not stiff, you're gorgeous," he agreed, anything to keep her going. He was twisting her stole in his hands, the scent of her perfume driving him crazy. "Come down here," he pleaded, making a grab for the bottle, but she whisked it out of his grasp.

"No way, uh-huh," she said vehemently, shaking her head. "Nuh-uh. You only want what you can't have. That's always how it's been with _you_, Chuck Bass." She spat his name like a dirty word, a vestige of sober Blair showing through.

"Call us even, then, because you don't want me anyway. Come down here before you _fall_ down here."

"Who _says_ I don't want you?" she asked innocently, and it was a loaded question. She was watching him through hooded eyes, a smirk on her cherry-red lips that rivalled his own. "After all... you're _Chuck Bass_."

Illogically enough, drunk, sexy Blair being replaced with evil Blair twisted his heart, driving a lance between his thighs, and he wasn't sure if it was pain or lust. They both looked one and the same from his present vantage point.

"Yeah, well, I'm not Nate and that's who you want." He managed to catch her by the wrist, peeling her fingers of the bottle she was on the verge of dropping.

"Let go, it's _mine_," she demanded petulantly, wrenching free of his grip to down another swig. The vodka splashed down the rim, missing her lips by inches.

"Blair, you're acting crazy, get down or back off from the edge." His voice came out tight and low, and the difference from his usually laconic tone caught her off guard. She bent over, trying to peer at him.

"Oh my god," she whispered in a rush, as though she'd had a revelation. "Chuck is _worried_. Chuck is _actually_ worried about someone other than himself." Throwing back her head, she burst out into a peal of laughter, and he took advantage of the distraction to prise the bottle away. Upending the last dregs of it into his parched mouth, he flung it to the couch, and tried to get Blair.

She was too high up for him to hold her, the highest he could reach were her knees. Her slender legs tapering to her high-heeled stilettos made him feel like a Victorian lusting after a woman's beautiful ankles. If Blair was acting crazy tonight, she was slowly drawing him in with her.

"Chuck. _Chuck_!" His name on her lips made his heart skip a beat. "If I fall, will you catch me?" He glanced up at her in surprise, swayed by the wild giddiness in her voice. Her gaze was unfocused but coldly sober. If there had been any doubt she was playing with him, there was none left now.

The price of leaving things unfinished was his dignity. "Your ploys never really worked on me, did they, Blair?" was all he could say. The light in her hair created a halo out of the auburn gold, driving home deeper what he was giving up tonight. Something low and mournful protested inside him, the pain almost physical, of wanting her so much it hurt.

"Don't trash the place as you vent your anger against Nathaniel," was all he said, before he turned away, prepared to walk out.

The next thing he heard was what he had always told her he dreamt of hearing: the sound of her voice screaming his name.

He whipped around, startled by the terror in her voice. For a second he thought it was an illusion, a cheap trick of the light. She was falling, she really was falling, off the treacherous edge of the stage, too far away for him to catch her like he hadn't promised, and Victrola was going to kill her the way he'd killed his mother.

"_Blair!_"

A sharp, sudden pull on her arm sent her stumbling back. The music roared, heedless, but two of the dancers had rushed forward to catch her before she fell. Chuck stood at the foot of the stage, her stole around his throat, his face white and scared.

"Ta-da!" she yelled with a dramatic flourish which fooled neither of them, just like her trick with the bottle. "Catch me," she demanded, her voice quivering though she tried very hard to stop it. Maybe if she could stop herself from thinking, the fear of death would go away. She was lowering herself from the stage before he could say yes, too fast for his brain to catch up with his hearing.

With a whoosh of air, she felt herself drop into the strong grip of his arms, her weight cushioned against his. He set her down gently on the ground, as though she was made of crystal, and if she fell, she would break.

For a moment he held her, the two of them shoved too close, close enough to see that the very real fear had not ebbed from his face. "Don't," she insisted, through harsh, layered breathing that belied her words. "I'm okay." Closing her eyes, she leaned in to press her lips over his.

"Blair," he tried to say, but she didn't want to hear him dissuade her. Who was she kidding? He probably wanted this more than she did. Her fingers entwined around the back of his head, drawing them closer. Chuck's lips parted fractionally against hers, but he stood like a rock against her.

She drew back, eyeing him with disappointment and anger. "I thought you wanted this." Every nerve in her body was on electric fire, her mouth yearning for his reciprocity.

"I don't want it to be like this," he told her quietly. The strobe lighting illuminated his hard, serious eyes, but Blair didn't want to hear the well-rehearsed speech about not taking advantage of drunken girls. Chuck was many things, including a bastard, but hypocrite and liar weren't on that list.

"Then how _do_ you want it, Chuck? Sober?"

He chuckled, his eyes glinting with familiar mischief. "I was going to suggest that we take it to my limo, which is conveniently waiting outside, but we can do it your way too."

"_No_," she snarled, infuriated by his knowing smirk. "Damn you, the limo, _now_."

"Since you always ask so... nicely," he agreed, mocking in his triumph. He leaned in to capture her lips with his, hand at the small of her back as he dipped her to kiss her. He hadn't been lying, she realised grudgingly; he _was_ a good kisser. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt him sweep her feet up from under her, hefting her in his arms and cradling her against his chest.

Blair smelt her own perfume entwined around his neck, mingled with the woodsy, surprisingly familiar scent of his cologne. Arms wrapped around him, she held on tighter. When and how long ago Chuck had gotten under her skin, she'd never know. The frightening lurch of being helpless in his arms, holding on tightly as he carried her outside, was quelled by the security of his grip. His breath ghosted at the hollow of her neck, his mouth whispering against her, vehement one moment, agonisingly gentle the next as he kissed her.

The limo waited patiently outside, the ubiquitous symbol of all things Chuck: she realised now why she'd never liked the sight of the damn thing.

"Are you sure you still want this?" he was asking her, but Blair could barely hear anything over the rush of blood to in her ears.

"Shut up and don't stop," she growled, using her free hand to angle to his face towards her once more. For a frightening moment, she felt Chuck bend, and the fear of falling rushed backwards at her again. Her breath escaped in a tight gasp, but he straightened again almost at once, holding her closer to him, tighter than before.

"Just opening the door," he murmured blandly, and she couldn't stop the laugh bubbling up her throat. Typical Chuck Bass? He didn't want to break the moment by setting her down to do something as menial as opening a car door?

"Is this how you treat all your girls?" she demanded. "I expected better of you, Chuck Bass." Wrapping both arms securely around him, she lowered herself until her feet touched the pavement again. The injured look he shot her fell flat against her knowing smirk. She slid across the plush upholstered leather seat of the limo, her come-hither smile a perfect mockery of "his girls." To her delight, Chuck responded at once, leaning in to kiss her again, one hand closing the limo door in on them until they were left in the dark and the moonlight.

Her stole was still around his neck, and its scent fuelled him. His hands ran over the contours of his body as his lips moulded themselves to hers. In his head, he was mocking Nate for having been hung-up and noble and selfish enough to give this up.

"You are wearing _far_ too many clothes," she complained against his unprotesting mouth. "And at least _one_ girly thing."

"Yes, because that's what makes this moment so romantic," he agreed, wincing as, in one unsurprising motion, she ripped open the linen custom-tailored shirt, buttons popping everywhere. Blair was ridiculously strong when annoyed. He filed it away for future reference.

"Have you been working out?" she asked suspiciously, secretly thrilled by the strong, flat plane of his sternum. Her hands were cool, ticklish, against his warm skin, and they wickedly travelled lower, pressing against his lower stomach, tugging at the beltloops of his trousers. Chuck groaned, silently calling her something that rhymed with _evil_ _witch_.

"You know you love me," she murmured sardonically, dipping her head to press her lips against his chest, his heartbeat thumping erratically in tandem with her pulse as his hand inched lazily up under her dress, stroking the inside of her thigh.

Her mouth torturously teasing, her hand slipping beneath his trousers, his head felt like it would explode if he didn't feel her warmth enveloping him, giving him succour, as he'd never begged it of any girl before. _Blair_. _Blair_. _Blair_. His vision was a blaze of swimming lights, she was the only thing he could see in its untouched beauty.

Without warning, his fingers stilled against her skin. Chuck let out a yell of pain, as Blair's teeth nipped the most sensitive place they could find. "Keep going," she muttered, and the threat in her expression was palpable.

He struggled for the words, but "Wait," was all that came out. Sprawled under him on the leather, Blair glared up at him.

"_Wait_?" she growled. "What the fuck _for_?"

"Is this what you want?" he found himself asking her. He didn't know why. He was crazy, because her answer could be a no, he'd be forcing her to think and come to terms with the fact that she was making a mistake. He didn't want to be compelled by some forgotten sense of shame to not go on if she didn't want to; he knew he'd keep going even if she said this was some primal form of revenge, just as long as she said _yes_.

"Why else the fuck would I feel like... like _this_ if this wasn't what I wanted?"

"I thought you wanted your first to be special."

"Forget _that_; I want there to be fireworks."

"I'll see what I can do," he promised, smirking down at her. She mirrored his smirk, pulling him up with her. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she forced off his shirt, while his sneaky hands slid open the seam of her dress. He dived, maiming himself with pleasure that slammed through her body and numbed her brain.

_the morning after_

The headlines splayed across the Internet, fuelled enthusiastically by Gossip Girl, _Blair bares all_, were nothing compared to the horror of waking up.

While Upper East Siders alone have more secrets than the entire Sicilian mafia put together, nothing was more shameful or as bad as losing it to Chuck Bass in the back of a moving car. Truck, limo, what was the difference? It was still as proletariat as it got, and while Blair wasn't quite sure of what proletariat meant, she knew Dan Humphrey used it a lot, so _ergo_, she _definitely_ didn't want to be it.

_Ugh_. What a way to start her seventeenth birthday. When she saw Chuck Basstard next, there was going to be bloody hell to pay.

—- **finis** -—


End file.
